Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them.

Side Notes:
Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad (As long as you don't call me names. I don't like name-calling :) )

Now we're starting to go somewhere…

Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…you have no idea how helpful they are!

Hour of the Child

The boy– the one I have hated for so long, have cursed with every breath for taking away Christine—is dead. He has been gone for five months…that would place his death in June.

What had I been doing in late spring, when the Comte de Chagny was committed to the ground? No doubt I was perfecting my dungeon, my prison—piecing my shattered furniture back together, recopying destroyed music, and all the while, bitterly visualizing the blissful couple strolling through the fashionable Parisian gardens in the warm sun; Christine innocently gazing up at him, her bright eyes full of love and promises. And I detested their happiness, something that would forever be denied me.

Yet all the time, the boy had been wasting away from the horrifying disease.

And, Dieu me pardonnent, I am glad for it! My heart soars as Christine tells of the illness and the pain that her dying husband had suffered through; of how he had cried when he was told he must leave his family behind because there was no cure for what plagued him. I rejoice that in the end, de Chagny had been forced to forfeit the prize he had fought so hard for.

The boy was correct. What a cold, despicable monster I am.

"Erik, please say something. At least do me the courtesy of looking in my direction!" The fact that he betrayed no emotion, no incredulity whatsoever at what she had just described disconcerted Christine. Tears streaming down her face, she had told him the painful story of Raoul's death, had opened her soul to him once again, only to be let down by his lack of empathy as he continued to stare at some invisible point on the wall. Surely he must feel something – his heart was not so icy that he would feel no pity for the man who had loved her.

She pressed her fingertips to her temples, trying to clear the fuzziness claiming her mind. How long had it been since she truly had a decent night's sleep? Four, five days ago? And Erik was sick; only hours before, a raging fever had consumed him. They were both exhausted, ill, drained…no good can come from having this discussion now…

"What would you have me say, Christine? That I am sorry he is dead; that it is tragic his life was cut short? I have always had a difficult time feeling pity for the human race—you know that. And I would be lying to you if I said that I mourn him, because I do not," he uttered passionately. Then recollecting himself, he continued in a softer vein.

"But I do regret that you have suffered because of it."

Erik paused a moment as if to assemble his thoughts, but Christine saw that he was tiring. What little color that had appeared in his face was fading away again, replaced by a sickly pallor. His hands were trembling slightly, but whether from exhaustion or emotion was unclear. This conversation was rapidly depleting him, and he would not be awake much longer. She waited patiently as he closed his eyes, steadied his breathing, and began again.

"The truth is that I resent him," Erik sighed. "I envy him because he was given all the things of this world that I could never have. He died a happy man, asleep in his bed with his loving wife by his side. What more could a man ask?"

Christine shook her head in adamant disagreement. "He did not die a happy man, Erik, I just told you. He died a troubled man. There were many things left undone, unsaid. Oh, we had our happy times, to be sure, but from the day we married to the time of his death, something gripped him in fear. And I am afraid I did not help him much. I was often rather cruel to him, though I did not mean to be."

Erik snorted scornfully. "Of course you did not mean to be cruel to the poor fellow – but then you never mean to be cruel, do you my dear?"

Christine gazed at him in wide-eyed disbelief, confused at his sudden shift in mood. She hadn't understood what he had just alleged to her—he was painfully aware of it. And then as suddenly as it had appeared, all derisiveness left his voice, and his shoulders slumped in resignation.

"Why do you seek me out now?" He shuddered as he coughed several times, and then held up a hand to stop Christine as she rose to assist him. "Has it finally come to pass that you just had to know what had befallen your poor Angel, and decided to sate your curiosity? Or did you truly believe me dead, and came to pay your last respects?"

"I need your help, Erik," the girl whispered, fearful to bring up the subject after the last scolding she had received.

Erik sighed. "Yes, of course you do. You would not have come for any other reason, than to seek my assistance. I suppose this has something to do with the boy's troubles. Go on, child."

"I must leave Paris in two days time, and I would like you to join me wherever I am sent to, when you have recovered…" She paused as a skeptical look passed across his face. "Perhaps this can wait until you have rested, Erik—" she began softly, but Erik shook his head, cutting her off.

"I said go on. My patience is wearing thin."

So Christine told him of Raoul's mysterious trips, the way he would evade the questions she had. She spoke of how his fears had now become hers, of all the notes, the threats, of how the Sûreté would not help her, because they thought her story a rather doubtful one after the fiasco at the opera. Erik couldn't help but smile fiendishly at this admission; Christine—meek, innocent Christine—an agitator? She, a suspicious character, and at odds with the police of Paris! …But when she shot him an injured look, offended by his lack of seriousness, he wiped all traces of the smirk from his face. She continued, her chain of thought unbroken.

"And then, the man murdered little Perri, the son of one of our servants." Erik sat up at this, her words forcing him to solemnity. Strange, threatening notes were one thing, but for someone to kill an innocent child…it was disturbing.

She continued, aware of Erik's sudden alertness. "Still, the Sûreté did nothing! So I came here for help. You see, Raoul left a note…"

"Implying that I could assist you," he filled in, his quick mind fitting the pieces of the puzzle together.

"Indirectly. He sent me to Mme. Giry." Christine glanced down at her hands and saw that she had been wringing them, her fingers clasped so tightly to each other that little nail imprints were scattered across her palms.

"And Mme. Giry, in turn, led you to me. So the boy did know I was alive, after all. I was always a bit unsure about that…" he said thoughtfully, no trace of scorn in his voice.

"When he came to bury—"

Erik's eyes snapped to attention, and disdain once again flooded into his being. "Ah yes, the task that you had so faithfully promised to carry out; a last pledge of devotion to your fallen Angel of Music. When he and his two idiot servants came traipsing about my home, I never quite had the heart to finish him off. After all, he was there to consecrate me to the ground; the nobler of services that one man can afford another. Tell me, my Angel," he muttered bitterly, "when you sent your husband to do the miserable task for you, did you weep for a full afternoon, or had your tears dried by teatime?"

The waves of guilt and grief from that day long ago washed over Christine once more, and she fell to her knees at the side of the bed, her hands desperately grasping her teacher's arm. "Erik – the day I read of your death in the Epoque was the day my soul died. How I wanted to come back to do as I promised! I pleaded with Raoul, begged him to let me go to you. But it was no use…he did not permit it."

"Of course, a few tears of disappointment were nothing compared to the wrath of a husband angered by his wife's disobedience!" Erik scoffed sardonically, gold eyes now flashing with unabashed anger.

"Erik, please, I beg of you—do not make light of my suffering," Christine cried, once again reduced to sobbing disarray.

And then the angry light darkened dangerously, a storm brewing just under the surface, ready to release its fury at any moment. His mouth twisted, low voice barely above a whisper… "Suffering…. what do you even know of suffering? There are things I could tell you that would make your spirit shrivel in absolute misery. The cruelties, the indignities that men will inflict on another, a child even, all for the sake of a measly profit." His eyes bore into hers now, pulling her into his madness; all the terrors, the ghosts of his past manifesting for her to see.

"The 'living corpse' is what they called me. Imagine a little boy, Christine, locked in a cage by gypsies, his spirit rotting, crumbling beyond repair. Night after night, he is made to perform like a dog for crowds of jeering, mocking humans that throw things at him, torture him with their words. Whipped and beaten, flesh torn to pieces, his body broken…all to keep his clever mind from rising against them. He is forced to separate himself from all humanity—he has no other choice! For the sake of survival, to save himself from going mad in his loneliness, his anguish—"

"No more—I can hear no more!" Christine covered her face, shaken by the horror of his words. "Please Erik—I have a child! A little boy…" Her voice broke in her throat, the lump that had formed there not allowing her to finish. Putting an arm out to steady herself, she lowered her shuddering frame to the ground and buried her face in the blankets. Breathing deeply, she tried to slow the pounding in her chest.

So she did not see the shock that suffused every crevice of Erik's face; his mouth gaping in mute disbelief at her cry. Then, slowly, the light of understanding came over him, as he thought through some of her previous words and actions. Christine, bending over him, face filled with concern at his rising fever…Her soft little hand unconsciously smoothing over the sheets of his bed…how she had comforted him during his nightmarish delusions throughout the night. And there were the obvious physical changes, however small on Christine's tiny frame, which came with childbearing. Her lovely figure had lost some of its boyishness, and now softly curved at her breasts and hips. How had he not realized it before?

"I have a son," she stated simply, now in complete control of her faculties. "I love him with everything that is in me. I cannot describe to you how precious he is; even now my very being aches to have him at my side." Her features clouded, once again remembering Erik's past. "And if the inhuman monster that hunts us ever does to him what has been done to you…I shall go mad, as well."

Erik nodded; he did not doubt her at all, now feeling rather guilty at his earlier words to her. After all, she had been seeking help for her son as well as for herself. He forced his cloudy mind to review their conversation once again, in light of his new knowledge. Raoul, sad to leave his family behind…she was afraid for 'us,' meaning she and her son…But the revelations of the past few minutes were too much—he could think about Christine's little child no more. And then he could not fight the darkness, too worn to move, to open his eyes, to even cough. As his head wearily dropped to his pillow, sleep finally claimed him prisoner.

Not long after Erik gave in to his exhaustion, Mme. Giry returned to the room for her shift. Instead of one slumbering person, she found two; Christine was curled next to the ill man, sleeping soundly, her hand resting lightly over his heart.

The ballet mistress shook her gently to rouse her, and with a steady arm, guided the dazed girl through the door to the adjoining room. The young woman collapsed in a heap on the settee next to the fireplace, not even bothering to remove her shoes. Lifting a blanket, Mme. Giry dropped it gently over her shoulders and slipped back to the sick room.

The corners of the woman's mouth turned up gently, the smile seemingly out-of-place on her stern face. It had been hard not to listen to the raised voices floating through the wall. Ah, I had forgotten the things one says and does when in love…

­

Meg gave a final tug to the laces on the back of Christine's dress, cinching them as tightly as they would go, looped them, and tucked them away.

"It doesn't fit very well, does it?" frowned the little dancer, gathering in two inches of extra fabric at the Comtesse's waist. "However, it does fit at the bust, which it never did before," she teased, "but it's still loose everywhere else. You are too thin now, Christine – we used to be able to share clothes." She turned to the top drawer of her bureau, fished out a filmy silver scarf, and deftly wrapped in around her friend's middle, folding the extra material under.

Christine brushed away the comment, and clasped her friend's hand. "Thank you for your assistance with the dress, Meg, and for bandaging my shoulder. The dress is perfect, such a lovely dark shade of gray. And with the scarf, no one will even notice that it's a little big. I'm not worried about impressions today, anyway," the Comtesse said smoothly, knowing full well that the last bit was only partly true.

Christine lowered herself to the rug at the fireplace, tilted her head, and ran her fingers through her wet mass of curls. She dried her hands on the towel that lay across her lap, and held her hand to her clean face. Sighing in contentment, she leaned back on her elbow, allowing the heat from the fire to dry her hair. It felt good to finally be rid of the layer of dirt and grime that had collected on her clothing and skin. She had not even realized how filthy she had been until she awoke from her six hours' sleep, staggered across the room on stiff legs, and stopped dead in front of the full-length mirror. Was that ghastly, grimy girl staring back really her? Her hair was a mass of tangles, splotches of mud still spotted her neck and arms. Most of the dirt on her face had been washed away by her tears, but had left brown little paths running the length of her cheeks and chin. Covering her face in horror, she let out a little yelp and ran from the mirror straight to the bath.

What had Erik thought when he saw my scruffy appearance? He was either too kind to bring it up, or too sick to notice, she thought, praying for the latter. She shook her head, trying to clear away the embarrassment at the thought.

"Christine, have you eaten anything yet today?" asked the little dancer, placing a few leftover tea sandwiches on a plate. The Comtesse shook her head, and gratefully took the proffered plate from her friend's hands. Tidying up the excess bandages and medicines, Meg noticed Christine's wrap in the corner where she had left it before her bath, taking in its ragged, bloodstained state.

"You won't want to keep this, will you? It seems to be beyond repair," she called over to her friend, lifting the scarf up for her to see. Something light and shiny slithered from its folds, and fell to the floor. Meg's eyes searched the ground for the object, and detected a thin chain lying next to her foot. As she bent to pick it up, she saw that it was indeed not a pendant, but a ring. She held the chain in front of her, letting the unadorned band swing back and forth, and wondered at its significance. This was not Raoul's intricate diamond ring…

Meg sauntered over to her friend at the fireplace, dangling the ring from her finger. "My dear Comtesse," the little dancer teased, I believe you may be missing a piece of jewelry; perhaps a ring?" Christine's face flushed a deep red at her discovered token, and grabbed the band from her friend, quickly placing it around her neck, tucking it away.

"It is nothing…just a sentimental gesture."

Meg, however, was not one to be put off so easily when there was a secret to be found out. Plopping down next to her friend, she began searching for answers. "Tell me Christine, do you have a lover hidden away? Perhaps in the adjoining room?" The little diva's cheeks turned a deeper shade, telling everything her words did not. "Come now, you must tell me!" The girl's features alighted mischievously, daring her friend to do exactly as she had asked. She was rather disappointed, however, when the Comtesse did not grasp her hands in confidence as she used to, but instead, turned her face away sadly, staring into the fire.

"You should not say such things, Meg," she sighed. "I have not taken a lover, nor do I have any plans to." Christine turned back to the little dancer, eyes now lightly teasing back. "Even if I had any desire to, I cannot now, or any time soon, for that matter." The woman smiled playfully, putting a hand to her forehead melodramatically. "Alas, I am still a widow in mourning, and must grieve for another year and six months yet, or I shall be shunned from Paris society forever! Or so my dear sister-in-law warned, fearing I would take a fancy to the next man that walked into the room."

"But Christine," Meg whispered, "you shall not be in Paris for long."

"No," the woman murmured, eyes turned back to the firelight. "I shall not be."

A quiet sadness seeped into the air, neither woman feeling the necessity to break the silence. But all too soon, the moment ended as loud footsteps pounded down the hall, sending both women jumping to their feet in surprise. A screechy voice reached their ears, making it quickly apparent who it was that descended upon them, about to grace their presence.

"I tell you, she is there! She is there in the room, and where she is, he also is. Giry, sick –ha! She 'as never been sick a day. So if she stays, then I am gone…"

"Señora, please listen, perhaps the dancer—what was her name, André?"

"Jammes."

"Yes, it could be that she was mistaken. After all, we have not heard from the Opera Ghost—"

"A man, Firmin. O.G. was a man."

"Yes yes, we have not heard anything for three and a half years."

The voice screeched again. "Bah – you amateurs know nothing; the man, he lies in wait, ready to pounce you both. No, no, I 'ave told you, and that is Carlotta's word! I want her gone—away!"

The two young women had not wasted time while the small party approached. Any traces of Erik's presence had been swept away, doors firmly shut, muddy shoes and cloaks tucked into the closet.

The footsteps stopped at the door, and then came the dreaded knock. "Christine Daaé, we know you are there!" cried Carlotta, almost triumphant in her discovery.

"Comtesse de Chagny, Señora —Comtesse!" hissed M. André, his red face suddenly beaming as the door swung open to reveal the very woman spoken of.

"Messieurs. Señora," Christine greeted them warmly, allowing them to step into the room. Gesturing to the settee, she seated herself prettily in the armchair, the perfect hostess. The men stood as the prima donna swept onto the settee, leaving them no room to sit. Instead, they flanked either side of her, as if guards attending to their queen.

"You are here to inquire after my mother, messieurs?" said Meg rather timidly, anxiously looking to the closed door of the bedroom.

M. Firmin cleared his throat, glancing nervously from the Comtesse to La Carlotta. "We were rather hoping to visit with her, yes Mademoiselle."

Catching the slight shake of Christine's head, Meg turned to her guests, gathering her courage. "I am afraid, M. Firmin, that my mother is very ill, and is not accepting visitors at this moment. Perhaps if you returned in a few days' time—"

"I do not believe it!" interrupted the Spanish diva loudly, waving her hand about her head. "There is that man, that Phantom in there—why else would she send for her personal doctor, I ask you?"

M. André made a move as if to silence the soprano, but pulled back at the last moment. Embarrassment at the singer's insinuations once again reddened his face. "Comtesse, I deeply apologize, but there have been some…suggestions that perhaps, well…" his words died away as he gazed around the room, taking in the bottles of medicine, the basins, all the apparent signs of illness.

"Suggestions of what, M. André?" wheezed the stern voice, coming from the back of the room. "That Christine and Marguerite have been keeping the Opera Ghost under lock and key… a prisoner of my bedroom?"

The woman had slipped quietly through the door, shutting it firmly behind her without as much as a squeak. The ballet mistress looked haggard; dark circles under her eyes, protruding cheekbones, pasty complexion. Her shoulders hunched over dreadfully, trembling with fever and fatigue. Both Firmin and André moved to her side, helping her to the chair that Meg vacated. She leaned back wearily into its depth, wrapping her shawl tightly around her body.

Carlotta could only look on in irritated shock; she had been so sure that her formal rival would be caught up in scandal, shown to be the lying little toad that she was. "But, the private doctor…" was all she managed to sputter out.

"Christine was so concerned for my mother, she sent for her personal physician, sparing no expense, knowing that he would come right away," cried little Giry, basking in the glow of her friend's silent approval.

Christine nodded in affirmation, finding her voice again after the astonishing appearance of Mme. Giry. "This is true. To think that I would be harboring…that man…after all that he put me through? It is preposterous. Messieurs, I have fought long and hard to have all such rumors of this sort squashed from circulation." She elegantly rose, walking over to the small secretary in the corner. Pulling out a piece of paper, she took a pen and scribbled out a brief message. Folding the note, she addressed and sealed it, then turned back to her observers, lightly tapping the message against her palm.

"I have in my hand a letter to my Avocat, instructing that the Chagny patronage of the Opéra Populaire be reinstated, in the amount of 20,000 francs per month." The managers stared greedily at the piece of paper, impatiently waiting for the Comtesse to continue. The subtle gibe in the form of the promised monetary value passed over them completely. "However, in order for this to be sent, I must ask that you refrain from disturbing Mme. Giry for the next week, until her convalescence is over. I also request that steps be taken to end the rumors of the Opera Ghost for good. He is long gone, and such lingering chatter can only bring harm to my family and me. Do I have your word?"

Both men crossed the room eagerly, nodding their agreement. "My lady Comtesse," cooed M. André, "I cannot begin to express how grateful—"

"You are very welcome, gentlemen," Christine gracefully interrupted them, handing them the letter, then motioned to the door. "Now Messieurs, Señora, if you please? I believe Mme. Giry should return to bed."

M. Firmin stood, offering his arm to the Spanish diva. Harrumphing at the gesture, she instead swept past the man and into the hallway, vain head held high in spite of the obvious debunking of her declarations. M. André followed, but remembering some forgotten task, he turned hurriedly back to the Comtesse, a message of his own to deliver.

"I almost forgot, Madame, this note was sent here not ten minutes ago for Mme. Giry." Bowing slightly, he quickly took his leave with the others.

Carlotta's shrill voice echoed down the hall. "A note! What did I tell you, he has returned—he is there!" and M. Firmin's exasperated response, more faintly. "Now Señora, if he were in the chamber, why would he bother with a note…"

After the voices had faded away, sighs of relief were breathed around the room. Mme. Giry smiled as she pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the soot from her face. "Poor Señora Guidacelli. For once in her life, she was completely correct in her assumptions."

Meg beamed, still in awe of Christine's performance. "I have never seen anything like it! Seeing the managers grovel to please you instead of La Carlotta. It was fantastic! Almost four years in Paris society, and you have already learned the art of throwing one's money around."

"Yes, a very fine show indeed," proclaimed the low raspy voice from the doorway, chuckling gleefully. All eyes quickly flew to the man leaning against the frame, arms folded across his chest. "You handled those two fools masterfully, my dear. I must admit, I am surprised at my Angel; you seem to have acquired a taste for negotiation over the past few years."

Although he was still extremely pale, his countenance seemed to have improved after the long, deep sleep. Christine noticed that at some point he must have bathed as well, because his hair was slicked back and still damp. He had also changed into a fresh set of clothing, but she hadn't the slightest clue where they had come from. Mme. Giry and Meg have been busy while I slept, she thought blessing them soundly. But his limbs still trembled, and Christine saw that he was leaning against the doorframe not so much for appearance, but for support. She walked over to the man and lightly placed a hand on his shoulder. "I thank you for the compliment, Erik. Now, perhaps you should return…"

He took up her hand from his shoulder, and pulled her palm to his lips, tenderly kissing it. "Always so worried, so anxious, Christine. I shall be quite all right for a few minutes, trust me. I do wish to speak to you about something, however, that should not be put off any longer." Erik glanced down at her face, then out behind her, as if noticing the others in the room for the first time. Mme. Giry stood, fumbling with the note in her hands. Little Giry had backed all the way to the door, unsure of whether to duck away in fear, or stay to dissect the relationship between the strange man and her friend.

"Mademoiselle Giry, I do not believe we have ever officially met." Erik nodded at the panicked girl, soothing her nerves with his melodic voice. The girl could only nod in response, choking out a quiet "Monsieur."

"Christine," said the ballet mistress suddenly, crossing the room to the girl. "This message is for you. I believe it is the information you have been waiting for." The young woman quickly grabbed the paper from her proffered hand, skimming the contents.

Mme. The Comtess de Chagny

In care of Mme. Giry of the Opéra Populaire

8 Rue Scribe, Paris

My Dear Madame,

I have met with your man, M. Norris Nitot, as requested, and arrangements have been made for your relocation to London. As secrecy seems to be necessary in this case, I have left all details with M. Nitot, to be imparted to you upon your arrival at the Gare Saint-Lazare railway station at seven o'clock this evening. There you shall meet the other travelers in your party: M. Nitot, his daughter, and the young Comte de Chagny. Again, as secrecy is necessary, you shall be traveling under assumed names, which are known only to M. Nitot and myself.

Madame, I am not sure if you have followed the buzz of Paris these past few hours, but the news of your attack, then subsequent escape of your attackers from the Sûreté has rapidly spread through all quarters. Yesterday, I took the liberty of removing your son and the Nitots to an inn after your message reached the estate. I can assure you that they were not followed, and their location remains undiscovered.

For your part, therefore, I highly encourage caution when traveling to the station this evening. Let me reassure you that the other members of your party shall do the same. It is most definite that those who follow you know you are at the opera, and shall be watching for your departure.

And now, my dear lady, I wish you safe travels, and remain

Respectfully yours,

Monsieur Henri David, Avocat

Christine's merriment had ceased, her hand trembling at the letter she held in her hand. All others in the room had become quiet as they saw the girl quickly pale and eyes widen in incredulity. She read the letter aloud, as if to confirm what was written.

"It is happening," she whispered. "I did not truly believe that it would until now, but it is time. I am to leave Paris, tonight, and must depart from the opera house within the hour. But I—I am not ready!" the young woman cried, looking around the room, not sure where to begin.

"Do not concern yourself with packing, my dear. Meg and I shall gather your things for you," said the ballet mistress, crossing the room to Christine's satchel. "Perhaps you should have your conversation now." The older woman's eyes flew to their faces, nodding her head towards the sick room.

"And I will gather up the medicines for your shoulder, Christine," called little Giry, sorting through the mix of bottles and bandages. "Would you like me to re-bandage it before you go?"

Uttering a swift "no thank you," Christine spun around to the bedroom door, only to fly straight into the chest of her Angel. He grasped her by the arms, pulling her into the bedroom, shutting the door soundly behind him.

"Christine, what the devil is going on?" he stammered, frantically searching her eyes for answers. "You told me that you were not to leave Paris for another two days. And what is wrong with your shoulder? He pulled away the shawl, running his fingers along the white bandage over her collarbone. She flinched at the touch, anticipating the rush of pain from the pressure to her wound. Instead, he delicately pulled the bandage away, eyes widening at the sight of the angry red knife wound.

"Tell me what happened yesterday," he firmly commanded, seating himself on the bed, lightly leaning against the post.

"Erik, I don't have much time—"

"For God's sake, Christine, tell me!" he cried, irritation evident in his voice.

The Comtesse swallowed, the events of yesterday racing through her mind. "I was going to fetch Dr. Sablet, when he apprehended me, forcing me into a brougham. He was evil, and cruel…the things he said! He put a knife to my throat…"

"What did he say to you?" Erik hissed, fury stirring up in his chest at the vast offense of the man.

"Strange things—most of it didn't make a bit of sense, and at the time, I was so frightened that I did not hear all of what he said. He wanted something from me, and that is why he took me. But he never even enlightened me to what it was he sought! He just assumed that I knew, that I'm holding it for some reason instead of taking it to the Sûreté."

"What else impressed you?"

"He hates the fact that I belong to the aristocracy—that much was perfectly clear. He dislikes money…"

"And…"

"I am thinking…"Christine's brow nit in concentration, going over the frightening events of the previous day. She thought of the way he moved, the sound of his voice, the feel and color of his clothing. And suddenly, it all came together. "Erik –he wasn't Parisian! I don't think he was even French. His dress was all wrong—from what I could see, anyway – he wore a cape. But the colors, the patterns and designs of the material were something I had never seen, even when I was a girl in Brittany. And the way he spoke; his accent was almost too perfect, too practiced."

Erik nodded, encouraging her to continue. "Did he hurt you in any other way, other than the cut?"

"No, only the wound at my collarbone." He exhaled in relief, hesitated a moment, then settled himself farther into the bed. Taking Christine's hand, he then drew her down to sit next to him, offering what comfort he could. Not willing to relinquish her fingers quite yet, he softly ran his thumbs over the tops of her knuckles, tracing the delicate tendons under her smooth, white skin. To his surprise, she did not pull away as he half expected she would, but closed her eyes, sighing contentedly.

And ever so slowly, she twisted under his arm, falling back into the soft folds of Erik's nightshirt. She let her head drop back gracefully onto his bony, sturdy shoulder, allowing her body be enveloped in the refuge of him. He did not protest her motions; instead, she felt him recline gently behind her, leaning against the headboard for support. His arm wrapped around her tiny waist, dragging her towards him; the other relinquished her hand and fell across her shoulders, under her neck. Ever so delicately, he ran his fingers up the soft curve of her neck, then down again, coming to rest just above the hollow of her throat, feeling her heart beat madly at his touch.

He smiled into her hair at the racing pulse, and tilted his head down to bestow a soft kiss on her temple, resting his cheek against the silk of her curls. Inhaling deeply, he gloried in the freshness of her damp tresses that smelled of lavender, the sweetness of her clean skin…

"You look slightly better than when I saw you this morning," he murmured into her ear, his warm breath tickling her senses.

"Yes…as do you," she said breathlessly, barely able to muster any semblance of a voice, whatsoever. So he had noticed…

This was how it is supposed to be! This is how I have remembered him, holding me like this, comforting me, loving me, soothing away my fears, heightening all the senses in my body. No quarrelling, no hate…only Erik…

"Come to me in London…" she sighed, basking in the heat of his touch, oblivious to his response.

His fingers deftly traced an invisible line along her neckline, lightly brushing her bandaged wound, careful not to inflict any pain. They ran back again… along the chain at her neck…down…toying with the ring that hung there…the ring!

Christine quickly jumped away just as Erik lifted the ring to his eyes, curiosity coursing through him. She pulled it from his hands, and wrapping herself in her shawl, she quickly tucked away her secret once more.

But Erik had seen the gold glint of the dainty chain about her neck, looped through the plain band dangling from it. A wedding ring…his ring. He quickly averted his eyes and stalked over to the corner of the room, his face to the wall. Desperately, he struggled to grasp the significance of it.

Why does she carry my ring, what meaning could it possibly have for her?…Oh God, I shall drown in my desires, my hopes, if I am not more guarded; just a moment ago, I had almost abandoned my carefully chosen words, merely content to hold her there against my heart forever, to promise her anything that she asked of me…

But even if she did truly love me—I cannot even think it—how could that conceivably make any difference in what I am about to do?

His thoughts were interrupted by a firm knock at the door, and Mme. Giry hurriedly entered the room. "Forgive me," she said, "but Christine, you must be leaving soon, and we still haven't come up with any way to get you past that brute of a man."

Christine started for the door then turned swiftly back, pacing, trying to clear her foggy mind. "Perhaps there is another hidden door somewhere?" she questioned Erik, her eyes pleading with his for help.

"I suggest the front door." He smiled back at her sardonically as her she blinked in confusion, his mind playing at some little joke that she did not understand. "My dear," he patronized, "you are in an opera house. Surely you can find some sort of disguise?"

Christine huffed in irritation, unamused by his games. "And what would you suggest, Erik – one of Hannibal's slave girls? That would surely avoid any unwanted attention," she muttered sarcastically.

"No," he replied smoothly, studying his nails. "Perhaps we shall cast you as the page boy, instead of the countess."

"A boy, of course!" clapped little Giry, safely in the other room. "You could pass for a 15-year-old boy very well, Christine. I know just where to find something," she cried. "One of the young stagehands would do practically anything I asked of him." She made for the door, eager to help her friend.

"Wait!" Christine called after her. Pulling a little coin purse from her satchel, she placed several francs into the dancer's palm. "Give this to him to replace whatever you borrow. It is highly unlikely the clothing will be returned."

Nodding, little Giry ran through the door and down the hallway, seeking out the mysterious young stagehand.

Christine placed the final tuck in the waistband of the too-big pants, pulling the cloth belt a little tighter. Carefully, she pinned up the rest of her curls, checking to see that they were all placed under the rough wool of the page boy cap. Finished with the last touches, she turned in front of the mirror, checking her appearance. "I really do have the figure of a boy," she bemoaned, turning from her reflection, collecting her satchel.

"You have a lovely figure," Erik murmured, bending to plant a kiss on her forehead, careful to avoid knocking the cap from her head and ruining her hard work. And then he gathered her into his arms completely, heedless of the cap. He pressed her cheek to his heart as her arms flew around his waist, hugging him close. Holding her tightly for several minutes, he finally released her, turning towards the wall.

"Erik, once I settle in London, I will send word to M. David, my Avocat, to direct you to my home."

Uttering no response, he nodded his head with conviction, knowing that the time had come to do what he must do. It is for you, Christine…please forgive me…

Grief etched in every contour of his face, he began to speak slowly, not trusting his voice for fear of its betrayal. "I shall not be going to London, Christine," he whispered.

Wide blue eyes flew to his. "What?" she breathed, stunned.

"Christine, please hear me out," he said, still facing the wall. "I have told you many things over the past day, much in anger, some in delirium. But most of what I have imparted was in honesty—no, please do not come any closer," he stuttered, hearing the soft rustle of wool. "I wasn't lying when I said that I thought it was best for you to leave me; I still believe that to be true."

"But—"

"I beg you, let me finish," he interrupted, holding up a hand for silence. "Things have changed over the past four years, we have become different people. I have no desire to leave my home for London, and I think you would rather not have a reclusive old bat on your hands, along with everything else. Your son could hardly appreciate it, either. He would be scared out of his mind by some brooding man hanging about, face covered by a mask!"

"He wouldn't! Oh, Erik, I can't accept this. Just minutes ago…" she uttered in disbelief, anger slowly brewing inside of her. "Give me the courtesy of the truth. At least I deserve that," she cried.

"Very well," he continued, his voice rising in irritation. He swung around to face her, stepping menacingly in her direction. "The truth is that I simply refuse to fight your battles for you, Christine. In your childlike ways, you beg for protection from anyone willing to offer it. Men have lined your doorstep—Raoul, myself—sad fools just waiting to kiss away your tears and promise to protect you from the evil things of this world. And you accept the help gladly, until all the things that scare you have been driven away; and you no longer have any use for the man."

Christine shook her head against his words, warding off their cruelty. "You can't mean that,' she spat, rage at his betrayal rising with the bile in her throat.

"I assure you, I do." And as the words left his mouth, he realized that he truly had meant them.

A silence settled over the room, tensely hanging in the air like a dense fog, clouding around the teacher and pupil, swirling, masking the one from the other. Then it was not only silence that held them apart, but the unspoken words at the tip of the tongue, knowing that to release them would be to stumble blindly into the unknown, afraid of what would be revealed.

Erik was the first to dive in, his voice breaking with emotion. "Once I laid everything that I had at your feet – my music, my love, all that I had to give—I offered you. But you feared it, too frightened to grasp something so dark and beautiful, afraid of the consequences. Instead, you ran from me, betrayed me with that boy. I will not allow it to happen again." He turned away from her with finality, waiting for her to run from the room.

"Erik, I am in love with you."

Christine trembled at what she had just proclaimed, her head reeling. She watched her Angel keenly as his back stiffened in surprise, then loosen again. He turned slowly, almost menacingly, stalking towards her until she could feel his warm breath on her face. Slowly, he reached a hand up to her throat, running his icy fingers under her scratchy wool shirt, causing her to shudder. Then they closed tightly around the hidden ring, and with a swift jerking motion, her ripped it from her person.

"The things you will say to torture a man, my dear," he hissed softly, eyes gleaming with fury. "Love me? Impossible. Believe me, child, there is a darkness that runs deep within me, something you cannot begin to fathom." Glaring down at the gold in his hand, he whispered fiercely. "This is no longer yours to keep; I am taking it back." Pocketing the treasured band, he twisted towards the wall once again, wordlessly dismissing her.

Erik stood stoically at the window of the bedroom, curtains barely pulled back. He watched the young "boy" dart through crowds and across the road, arm raised for a cab. A brougham pulled up and the passenger climbed in, disappearing from his sight. He glanced up and down the road, looking for any signs of someone watching or moving to pursue the cab. After several minutes, he closed the curtain, shutting away the evening light, and tumbled into the bed, too exhausted by the afternoon to move. Throwing an arm over his eyes, he desperately pleaded with his mind to let him drift into the blissful oblivion of sleep, away from all the torturous words that had flown back and forth only minutes earlier.

"She was not lying to you, Monsieur," said a severe voice from the side of the bed. Mme. Giry moved to the vacated spot at the window, again pulling back the curtains, peering out onto the street. "She desperately needs assistance, and I am afraid you have fed her to the wolves."

"Do not fear for the girl, Madame," he mumbled, arm still draped across his face. "I do not intend to 'feed her to the wolves', as you put it. The Angel of Music has her under his wing."

The ballet mistress cleared her throat at the small quip, casting a stern look upon the man. "Angel indeed. Why did you let her believe she was alone in this, Monsieur? I am afraid I do not follow your logic."

Erik sighed, longing for the woman to leave him in peace. "For too long she has rambled about, uncertain of herself; I am afraid that I'm partly to blame for it, using that foolishness about the Angel of Music for my own purposes. But it is time for her to face her demons on her own, Madame. Christine has a young child to protect, and she can't do that when she doesn't even believe she can protect herself. It's time for her to grow up." He thought about his lovely Christine, and the way she had so deftly handled the managers. "Though I wish I could be there to see it," he mused sadly.

How dare he? After all that I have done to find him, what I have given up—I should have been with Jean-Paul these past few days, preparing to leave Paris, instead of traipsing about the city for a man who—

—who she still loved desperately, despite the changes the years had brought about.

She rebuked herself in disgust – why had she assumed that he would scoop her up into his arms and play the hero, saving her and her son from the evil that chased them? She truly had not stopped reflect that after he had let her go all those years ago, perhaps he really had let her go…

Shaking her head to clear away the anger, Christine scanned the crowd once again, searching for Norry and Papi, and her dear little boy. Still in her wool pants and cap, she knew they would have a hard time spotting her. She waded through the sea of people, searching all the faces for a familiar one. Back and forth, through the lobby again, back to the London platform. Just as she was about to plop down on a bench in despair, a little one's cry caught her attention, and she spun around to see a jogging Papi chasing after her curly-headed son.

"Maman!" he cried in delight, as Christine knelt down to him, arms open. She pulled him to her tightly, squeezing him, planting kisses all over his little face. Giggling with glee, he squirmed in her embrace, stretching tiny fingers up towards her cap. She laughed and reached up to capture his small fist, kissed it, then stood to greet Papi and Norry.

"My dear Jean-Paul, you must not take your Maman's hat," Papi scolded gently. "No one must see her long hair hidden underneath." Smiling, the woman pulled her mistress into a strong embrace, relief written all over her face. "We almost didn't recognize you, Madame. Such a clever costume!" Norry came up behind her, placing a hand on her good shoulder.

"We were sick with worry when we heard what happened yesterday with the brougham. It was all my girl could do to keep me from rushing over to the opera and drag you home. Where is your friend, by the way?" he asked, suddenly remembering the man she had said would be accompanying them. The old man immediately regretted his question as the Comtesse's face fell.

"He will not be joining us," Christine muttered, then forced away the thought. She would not be sad now – they were about to begin a new life somewhere away from the gloomy memories of Paris, and away from the evil that chased them. She had her little boy and these two loyal, caring people. It was all she needed. Smiling up at them, Jean-Paul tucked securely in her arm, she gestured towards the platform. "On to London, then?"